


This Synthetic Soul

by yaseanne



Category: True Detective
Genre: Alternate Universe - Robots & Androids, Blow Jobs, Happy Ending, M/M, Other, Plot With Porn, Post-Canon, Temporary Character Death, very temporary I promise!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 06:46:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2841839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaseanne/pseuds/yaseanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are moments that Marty forgets Rust is synthetic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Synthetic Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tricatular](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tricatular/gifts).



> I took robot AUs and Rust/Marty from your letter and ran with it. Happy Yuletide, I hope you enjoy the fic!
> 
> Thank you to Alby for the wonderful and fast beta!

On a Tuesday in July, Rustin Cohle’s second-generation semi-organic heart stops. Then he wakes up.

—

Marty knocks on his door at the crack of dawn. “Come on, you still asleep in there?” he hollers.

This is his life now; he hides his scars under threadbare shirts and stakes out adulterers.

He inhales deeply when he steps out the door; the air is clear and smells vaguely of citrus from the magnolia trees. Marty is waiting impatiently at the car, a cup of coffee in his hand.

“If you’re going for beauty sleep, I’m sorry, man, it’s not working.” He smirks.

Rust has - at Marty’s insistence - rented a furnished apartment on a street lined with willows and magnolias. Around noon he can hear the neighbors’ children yell and chat on their way home, interspersed with the barking of dogs. It’s not home though, and he feels uncomfortably aware of his self-imposed alienation. The apartment and the job are both temporary solutions that have turned into an approximation of a normal, if unhappy, life.

“Are we going back to Mrs Roche?” He asks.

“Unless you’ve got something better planned, yeah.” The trees and street signs fly past them as Marty accelerates, and Rust wonders - not for the first time - how he can feel so peaceful in the passenger seat of a car. He is at the mercy of entropy which works tirelessly to disintegrate and dilapidate both the car and himself, and of Marty, who may be a good driver but is still human and fallible. And yet, the endless stream of landscape passing by is soothing.

Two months since Carcosa, and there are still arguments. Arguments over why Marty has to play chauffeur, whether they ought to keep the reward money or donate it, whether Rust should be allowed to maintain his own logic circuits, whether Marty should move to the apartment above their office, and once, very briefly, why they keep working together.

“You know, if this is somehow beneath you, you can leave any time,” Marty had said. There was something defiant about him, the way he had squared his shoulders and raised his chin, and Rust would have believed it if Marty hadn’t inched sideways to stand in the doorway to the office, blocking Rust’s way. He’d still decided to push it, partly out of habit, partly because he wasn’t sure either how this thing between them was supposed to work now.

“I’m sure you’re right. You’ve done well enough all those years on your own, after all.” They had stared at each other.

“You’re damn right I have.” _And you haven’t_ had hung between them. “I don’t need you,” Marty had continued, but he’d looked away as he said it, and the tension had deflated. They had gone back to their case - an inheritance dispute - and tiptoed around each other in a way Rust had found bizarre.

Presently, Marty shakes him out of his reverie. “There she is,” he says and points across the parking lot.

— 

On a Tuesday in July, Rustin Cohle’s second-generation semi-organic heart stops. Then he wakes up. Marty’s face is fuzzy, framed by bright blue sky.

“Shit,” he says. “Shit, shit, Rust, what the fuck.”

—

Josie Roche is perched on the railing which fences off the shopping carts by the entrance of the supermarket, dangling her legs and sipping out of a plastic cup.

“Ms Roche, we want to ask you about the man you saw on the highway Monday morning,” Marty states after introductions are done with.

“I was half asleep,” Josie says. She takes a last sip and throws the cup in a perfect arc into the trash can on the other side of the wide doors.

“Still,” Marty insists. “Could you describe what happened?”

Rust watches as she describes herself and her boyfriend driving home from a weekend with his parents, exhausted and nearly out of gas on the highway in the early morning hours. Her face is protected by a cap but her arms are sun-burnt, clashing with the orange-and-blue stripes of the uniform shirt. He glances at his own arms, the skin roughened artificially and through use. There’s a scar from a knife wound that runs from his elbow nearly up to his wrist, sealed up haphazardly by one of the Iron Crusaders.

“Anyway, Tom braked all of a sudden and I almost went through the windshield. There was this guy standing in the middle of the street, and Tom rolls down the window and asks if we can help him, and the guy says ‘which way to the port?’ and Tom told him, ‘down the highway, you can’t miss it’. And then the guy just walks off.”

“Was he carrying anything?” Marty is taking notes on his small pad, and Rust quirks his mouth at him. His own memory processors are flawless, but have difficulties with visual abstraction. When they’re back at the office, he’ll be able to reproduce the conversation word-for-word, and Marty will insist on the importance of his own notes, and they’ll both be right.

“I couldn’t tell. He didn’t do anything weird, so I went back to sleep.”

“Take a look at this, please.” Rust knows the picture Marty hands to Josie. It’s a blurry photograph of a young man, neither tall nor small, dressed in a red blazer and a baseball cap.

“Yeah, that’s him,” Josie says.

“You didn’t talk to him?” Marty asks.

She shrugs. “I thought he was some drunk college guy. Why else would you be out on the street at three-thirty? He’s not dangerous, is he?” He legs stop swinging.

“We don’t think so,” Rust says.

“Alright. Well, anything else you want to know, you have to come back later.” She points towards the store entrance. “My break’s over.”

“Thank you for your help, Ms Roche,” Marty says, and they walk back to the car.

—

“It could be anyone,” says Rust flatly when they’re back inside the car and on the road. “It’s a bad picture.”

“It’s him,” Marty says when they arrive back at the office. Rust absently notes the spring in his step. “Mister Thirty-Five-Million himself, and it took us five weeks to get him.” He’s pulling out case files now, slamming them on the center table. “Shit. We must be getting old. Heller’s just one guy.”

—

Sometimes, Rust thinks, there are moments that Marty forgets Rust is synthetic. When he offers him a beer or directs that cocky grin at him, it’s as if Marty never cornered him in the parking lot on their first day as partners.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” he’d said. “I’m not gonna pretend you’re human. I’m not gonna joke around with you, and I’d appreciate no robot talk from you.” That had been minutes after their first meeting in Ken’s office, when Marty had been too stunned to protest being assigned a synthetic partner. And it had taken him weeks to warm even slightly to Rust, but eventually those moments had happened more often.

There’s one happening right now.

“We don’t have him yet,” Rust cautions, but Marty is looking at Rust with pride.

“We found him. Half the battle and all that.” And sure, it’s something to be proud of. Heller had robbed three banks and taken off with thirty-five million dollars in diamonds, and the only evidence had been the dead bodies and a blurred picture from a security camera.

“Apprehending him won’t be easy.” This, at last, seems to dampen Marty’s mood.

“You’re so fucking pessimistic, man. What happened to the light winning?” He’s glowering at Rust.

“That’s an overall perspective, Marty,” Rust says. “And a metaphor.” Calmly, he picks up the remaining folders on Heller and starts sorting them. They’ve got a long planning session ahead of them.

“Jesus. Did they reboot you in one of those repair sessions?”

Now it’s Rust’s turn to frown. “I’m not gonna change, Marty,” he says. “If that’s what you thought would happen when we got out of the hospital - if you’ve been waiting for that - you’ll be disappointed. It’s not gonna happen. I’m not built for geniality, I’m not a Model Four who’ll smile at civilians and bring you coffee.”

“You’re your own person,” Marty says. His tone is mocking, but not hostile. “Who spouts philosophical bullshit and doesn’t bring me coffee.”

“Exactly,” says Rust, and that’s that.

The next hours are spent drawing up a plan to get Heller into handcuffs.

 

“We could stake out the port,” Marty says. “Call it in at the station.”

“No, one wrong move and we’ve got a bloodbath.” Rust is right, and they both know it. Heller might prefer the stealthy approach, but when two security agents had tried to stop him in Baton Rouge, he’d shot them without hesitation.

“One of us has to go,” Rust continues.

“I can’t, I — the kids —” Marty says. He’s more careful these days.

“I’ll go,” Rust says calmly.

“What if something happens to you?” Marty asks. There’s honest fear in his eyes, and it floors Rust.

“Then you’ll find someone who can repair a Model Two.” Rust flexes his muscles, rolls his shoulders. He closes his eyes and runs a short internal diagnostic routine. Everything’s in order.

“Right,” he says, “I’ll meet you back here later.” He checks his weapon.

“He’s not even gonna let you close,” Marty says. “This guy’s on the run with thirty-five million dollars, he’s gonna avoid people like the plague.”

“I’ve taken down armed gang members,” Rust reminds him. “My reflexes are-”

“-twice as good as mine, yeah, yeah.” He fixes Rust with a frustrated glare. “I still don’t like it.”

Rust shrugs. “Occupational hazard,” he says. “Taking down bad guys.”

“We’ve stopped taking down bad guys,” Marty reminds him.

Rust smiles involuntarily. “Marty,” he says, “do you really think we’ll ever stop doing it?”

Marty makes a face. “Don’t do this,” he says, “come on.”

“See you back here,” Rust repeats. Then he’s gone, out of the office and on the road. It’s a long walk to the port through the rain, but he could run even further without tiring. In the distance, thunder growls.

 

It all goes to shit far too fast. He barely has time to approach Heller when the man draws a gun. For a brief moment Rust is hopeful - there’s a lot of places in his body where a slug won’t do too much damage. Then he sees the flicker of electricity at the muzzle. His dive is too slow; light arches towards him and his mind goes blank.

—

On a Tuesday in July, Rustin Cohle’s second-generation semi-organic heart stops. Then he wakes up. Marty’s face is fuzzy, framed by bright blue sky.

“Shit,” he says. “Shit, shit, Rust, what the fuck.” His hand is buried in Rust’s chest. Rust smiles a little. He can feel the rain on his skin and he can feel Marty’s touch, each bit of pressure and each tug at wires and dislodged circuit boards. He cranes his neck to look down. His shirt is torn, and his chest plate has been removed. Marty’s hand is disappearing inside his body. Marty tugs at something that shoots bright sparks in Rust’s eyes, and he blacks out.

 

The next time he wakes up, he’s in the car.

“Don’t disappear on me,” Marty says. He’s propped him into the seat, plate by his feet, one hand on the wheel and one covering the opening in Rust’s chest. When they get to the office, he half-drags, half-carries Rust’s body inside, swiping papers off the table to stretch him out on top.

Between the two of them and a set of pliers, they dry him off and rewire him, sorting chips and putting everything back where it was. Marty’s hands are steady throughout, his expression alternating between sheer focus and something close to reverence. Finally, he fits the chest plate back on, running his fingers over the seams and smoothing out the edges. The bullet hole is the only proof anything happened at all.

“Didn’t know you knew how to do this,” Rust says, sitting up. He moves his fingers and toes, and they all respond. He stands slowly. When he looks up, Marty is scowling.

“You think I wouldn’t learn how to fix up my partner?”

“I thought you wouldn’t treat me like I’m human,” Rust says.

“You fucking idiot,” Marty snaps. “I didn’t forget you’re not human. I wouldn’t want you to be human.”

Rust quirks an eyebrow, and Marty averts his eyes.

“I swear I’ll cut your circuits if you make me say it again, but you’re alright.”

“Aw,” says Rust, because he can’t help it.

“Right, I take it back,” Marty says. “I wish you were human so you’d feel it if I punched you.”

“I feel everything,” Rust points out, and there’s an awkward silence. They stare at each other, Rust caught in the sudden shift in the room, Marty with his hands covered in synthetic fluid and his mouth open.

“You, er,” he says, and Rust just has to push it further, because he’s old and so far from perfect and tired of pretending. He strips off the remains of his shirt and takes a step toward Marty.

“Rust,” Marty says. He looks panicked.

“Yeah, yeah,” Rust replies. “Just stay still.” Then his hands are at Marty’s belt, opening the buckle and tugging his pants down.

“Jesus, Rust, you don’t-” Marty says when Rust is drawing down his boxers as well and lowering himself to his knees.

“You want me to stop?” Rust says. Marty’s cock is filling under his gaze, and he licks the tip.

“Shit, keep going,” Marty groans, and Rust does. He takes him in his mouth without hesitation, swallowing him down, massaging the length with his tongue. Marty makes an undignified noise and puts his hands on the back of Rust’s head, then jerks them away. Rust draws away, grabs them and puts them back.

“I don’t have to breathe, Marty,” he says with a wry smile.

“Fuck.” And then Marty’s guides him forward until Rust’s nose is pressed against his pubes. He rocks a little, his cock filling Rust’s mouth and throat, and Rust cups his ass, holding him tighter. Marty doesn’t speak; his fingers dig into Rust’s neck and he lets out the occasional groan. When his hips start snapping forward, it’s all Rust can do to hang on, caught in the sensation of Marty surrounding him. He’s aching to let his own cock harden, to start the pleasure subroutines he’d been fitted with decades ago, but this isn’t about him.

Marty comes with a choked-off moan, spilling deep in Rust’s throat, and letting his cock slip slowly from Rust’s mouth.

When Rust rises, Marty reaches towards his crotch. Surprise colors his face.

“You’re not - what the fuck was this about, then?” He looks confused.

“Fucking android, Marty,” Rust reminds him. “You don’t have to-”

Marty actually laughs at him.

“I’m not that selfish. Can you even..?” he asks, and in answer, Rust engages synthetic muscles. His cock hardens in Marty’s grasp.

Marty raises his eyebrows. “Right. I’m not gonna do that to my knees, so we’re gonna go upstairs.”

“Fine by me,” Rust says. He trails behind Marty, his processors frantically altering parameters to describe the alteration of their bond. It’s a heady feeling. 

—

"I miss the ocean," he says quietly later, the words nearly swallowed by the tapping of rain. They’re lying side by side on Marty’s narrow bed.

“You weren’t, er,” Marty starts to say. “You weren’t born in Alaska.”

“I still have the memories,” Rust says.

"Coast isn't too far from here. You could settle down."

Rust shakes his head. "Not the same ocean."

There’s something unreadable in Marty's eyes. "It's all the same ocean."

Rust starts. Then he gives Marty a wry smile. "And I can't pick and choose which parts I love, that what you're telling me?"

Marty shrugs. His hand is covering the hole in Rust’s chest, rough and warm.


End file.
